


Dance With Me

by BoxWineConfessions



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Chris and Victor's friendship through the years, Chris gets married first, Friends to lovers to friends again, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 16:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14241315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: Chris does not like to spend his time flipping pages backwards and drowning in the nostalgia of the way things used to be. Yet, it’s difficult to not think of the long haired boy who handed him a single rose well over a decade ago. They didn’t know the gravity of their steps, nor did they know that the music would play onward long after they parted. Whatever the song, wherever they are, they’ll put down long stemmed flutes of champagne and dance together.





	Dance With Me

_ Waltz _

Victor has had many boys approach him with flushed red faces and half-lidded eyes. Chris’ gaze almost, but never quite meets his own. His face is dark red like Merlot, but he doesn’t approach him. He looks up at Victor across the dance hall with lashes so fine and so pale that they catch chandelier light. 

Victor feels as if he is a child again, plucked from his ballet class and put upon the ice with minimal instruction.  His feet move across the floor between waiters with flat trays perched upon their fingertips and around couples on the dance floor. Each shuffle of his soles across the carpet feel like that first ill fated creep away from the rail and toward the center line of the rink. 

He fell flat onto the ice and bounced that very first day. 

“Ah, Chris,” Victor forces the firm line of his mouth into a smile. Chris is his friend right? He should smile at his friend. “Would you, like to - ah. Would you like to?”

“Dance?” Chris utters the word and then immediately tears his gaze away from Victor’s. 

“Yeah,” Victor responds. 

“Yeah,” Chris repeats. 

Victor steps on Chris’ two-toned loafers, “sorry.” 

Both of them move to place their hands on the other’s waist, in an attempt to lead. Then, their hands dart away, as if they’d both resigned themselves to letting the other lead. “I’ll do it,” Victor insists. He’s older. He’s taller. He’s the one with the gold, and so he should do it, right? 

His hand rests around Chris’ middle. Chris’ hand rests upon his chest. Their fingers intertwine together, and all of a sudden Victor feels as if he’s being held underneath water. His senses are muted, his fear pronounced. 

The box-step is slow, uneven, and laughable for two men who spend so much time in the studio. 

“We’re really bad at this,” Chris wipes a sweat soaked palm against the lapel of Victor’s gray suit jacket. Victor cannot blame him, he’s mimicked the exact same motion in the small of Chris’ back and the curve of his waist at least three times since the first violinist picked up his bow. “Shouldn’t we be better?” 

Victor would be apt to agree, but it’s difficult to utter a response to Chris right now. Despite having had French lessons for years now and top marks in his class, the words don’t quite come together. His brain becomes a muddled mixture of phonemes and syllables which are jagged around the edges and soft in the middle. He can feel the soft sting of judgmental eyes upon them, and it feels so different from when they’re on the podium together. “We could um, go to my room?”  Quickly he adds, “so that people don’t stare?” 

_ Rhumba _

Chris wonders if he’s in love. Victor’s pale lavender pocket square is untucked, and threatens to fall to the floor at any given moment. Despite his partner’s rumpled appearance, Chris cannot bear to move his hands and tuck it back in. Victor’s hair falls freely in front of his face tonight. Chris quite likes this, for he fears that staring directly into Victor’s freely given smile would be akin to staring into the sun. Victor’s face is flush from drinking just a bit too much champagne. In contrast, Chris is drunk not from the alcohol, but from the feeling of being one step ahead of Victor. 

This year, it’s Chris that takes Victor’s hand into his and leads the dance. What he cannot do on the ice, he does naturally now. Their bodies sway to the upbeat tempo, and he keeps up with every impromptu roll of Victor’s hips.  

Of course, the the question of whether or not he can love someone who has beat him to the top of podium at Worlds twice lingers like the strong scents of champagne and perfume in the air. 

Chris steps forward, rolls his wrist, and seamlessly Victor ducks under his arm into a perfect underarm turn. Platinum waves wash over him and tickle at his hand and bare wrist. Chris decides that it is in fact possible, plausible even. 

Evidently, from the top of the podium, these matters are much more clear. Victor’s feet move swiftly, but he never breaks eye contact. “Everyone is watching us Chris.” The syllables pour off of Victor’s tongue like fine champagne. 

It’s true. Chris can feel a thousand eyes upon them. The degree and intensity of the gazes is varied. For those whose gaze is warm to the touch, they must make a captivating picture moving across the floor. They move as two champions, two hearts that beat as one. Their long sweeping jaunts across the dance floor are easily pardoned because they are young and attracted to one another. For those whose gaze burns with a smolder and deep red ember, they are rude youths who do not know any better. Their dance pushes others off of the floor.  Above and beyond those gazes, there is the white hot burn of those who are affronted simply because they are young and attracted to one another. “You like it when others watch.” 

His lips curl into a smile, and he moves his lips so close to Victor’s that he can feel the other man’s breath. Not for a second does he consider fully closing the gap between them. 

“Chris,” Victor breaks their mutual gaze for a moment. He laughs, light and airy. “I think I’m in love with you.” 

_ Foxtrot  _

Victor feels sick to his stomach despite the fact that Yakov offered him some small blue capsules from his arsenal before they left the hotel room. He’s been nursing the same ginger ale for hours now. 

When they told one another, “if neither of us is married after retirement,” wedged between the sheets at a five star hotel, he never believed it would be something they’d actually do. 

It’s just that, of all of the men he knows of in the division, he never anticipated that Chris would marry at twenty-five. He couldn’t deny that Samuel was perfect for someone like Chris. He knew how to work around Federation rules and make them work for Chris, who thrived upon skirting along the edge. He was attentive, and he was grounded to a fault. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he and Chris should be at the bar nursing tonics and sizing up the room at someone else’s wedding. 

“You look wonderful tonight,” and in an instant the sour feeling in his stomach is gone. Chris’ words are genuine because he means every one. Chris’ face has been a near constant smile, from the moment his mother walked with him down the aisle. His blonde hair looks like a halo around his head in the dimmed light. 

Victor leads them in the meandering zig-zag pattern of the foxtrot. 

Chris removes his hand from Victor’s shoulder. “So do you,” Chris says pushing back Victor’s hair.  “Even with so much of it gone, it’s difficult to see your eyes.” 

The song ends, and Victor can see Samuel from the corner of his eye ready to cut in and dance with his husband once again. Victor is careful to not let his hands linger for too long upon Chris. 

“Victor,” Chris calls as he turns on his heel. 

Victor turns back to him. Chris’ long eyelashes catch chandelier light once more, and it is as if he is chasing after him all over again.

“I don’t have a bouquet,” his hands go to his lapel, where he unpins his boutineer. The hole from the pin leaves a dark ugly hole in pristine white fabric. “But you should have this.” 

“For luck?” Victor chuckles. 

Chris takes the lapel of Victor’s suit into his hands, and spears the fabric. Then, he smooths the white petals back into place against crisp dark leaves.  “So that you’re next.”   
  


_ Tango _

Victor breaks away from Yuuri on the down beat, taps Chris’ shoulder on the up beat, grabs him up on the down beat, and by the very next up beat, they’re dancing again. Chris cannot remember the last time he saw his best friend this happy.   

Over Victor’s shoulder, he watches as Yuuri and Phichit bump foreheads. Their faces are smashed into the kind of wide boyish grins that are rarely seen outside of the the kiss and cry. 

Chris leads with firmness and authority. The contact shared between them is electric and warm, but round around the edges. “As always Victor, the color of gold looks good on you.” 

Although their bodies move together, their dances are distinctly independent. Victor’s movements are traditional to a fault, pressed perfect, and designed to make every jaw in the room drop. Chris’ body is elastic, and the figures he leads them through are ornate. 

Victor’s eyes drift to where their hands are joined midair. “You too, Chris.” 

Yuuri breaks away from Phichit on the downbeat, taps Victor’s shoulder on the upbeat, and join one another on the next downbeat. On the upbeat, he’s back in Samuel’s arms. 

Chris does not like to spend his time flipping pages backwards and drowning in the nostalgia of the way things used to be. Yet, it’s difficult to not think of the long haired boy who handed him a single rose well over a decade ago. They didn’t know the gravity of their steps, nor did they know that the music would play onward long after they parted. Whatever the song, wherever they are, they’ll put down long stemmed flutes of champagne and dance together.


End file.
